


A Pal, A Sister and Adviser (There's Nobody Wiser)

by volunteerfd



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Broadway, Dinner, Hamilton References, Musicals, Repression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:07:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26311636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volunteerfd/pseuds/volunteerfd
Summary: “So, like, the theater stuff is really interesting. I haven’t seen that many shows, but, um...did you see Hamilton? ”“Yeah. I saw it at The Public five times," Connor said.“Yeah? That’s so cool. Can you--I mean, I’d pay you back but--would it be possible if you, uh, for you to get me tickets? I have the money for it, I think, it’s just that it’s all sold out for like, two years.”“No one wants to see Hamilton anymore,” Connor scoffed. “Overrated.”“I, I do, though.”“Let me tell you something. As an actor, Lin-Manuel Miranda makes Pia Zadora look like Sir Laurence Olivier, and as a composer, he makes Wildhorn look like Guettel, you get me?”***Greg has wanted to see Hamilton for the longest time, and with his new connections, he might finally have a chance. But when all the Roys are unhelpful, will theater aficionado Tom come through? Will Greg finally get to see Hamilton?
Relationships: Greg Hirsch & Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 20
Kudos: 40





	A Pal, A Sister and Adviser (There's Nobody Wiser)

Last year, Greg didn’t even bother fantasizing about seeing _Hamilton._ It wouldn’t happen. Ever. The only way he could afford it was if he won the ten-dollar _Hamilton_ lottery, and even then, depending on the week, he might have had to borrow the cash. Still, eyes wide and full of hope, he entered every single day, telling himself that it was his time. It was Greg time. But, every single day, losing emails crushed his spirit, and he was constantly reminded that all his efforts were for nothing. 

OK, he entered three times total, but he still lost every time, so what was the point?

But now, with his new job and new New York connections, he had a chance. If the Roys couldn’t see _Hamilton,_ then no one could, and people clearly could, because they kept talking about it. Ergo, the Roys could see _Hamilton._

He just needed to ask the right Roy. None of the candidates were ideal. Shiv would ask why he didn’t ask Tom, and Tom would find out, and it would become a whole big thing. Anyway, Shiv wasn’t even an option-- Greg clammed up with fear at the mere thought of talking to her.

He decided to duck into Kendall’s office at the end of a work day, real casual, under the pretense of updating him on some files. He was halfway out the door, leaving, then he turned around--again, real casual--and asked, “Hey, Kendall? Can I talk to you about something?”

“If it’s a Tom thing, go to HR,” Kendall said, not looking up from blank paperwork.

“No, actually, I was wondering, well, I was really hoping to um, if I could get tickets to a show I really want to see--”

“ _Hamilton_?”

“Yeah, how’d you know? Have you seen it?”

“Yeah, I saw it a few times,” Kendall shrugged, rustled the paperwork, shook his head.

“So--I mean, could you--?”

“Uh, I’m kind of super busy. You should ask Connor about this. He’s more of a theater guy than I am.”

Greg nodded. He’d specifically hoped to avoid asking Connor. Logistically, he couldn’t casually pop into Connor’s office. He’d have to wait for a family function or something. Then he’d have to actually talk to Connor, and Greg didn’t know how to do that, nor did he want to. 

He expected it would happen, though. In his marrow, he felt that his path to _Hamilton_ tickets would inevitably go through Connor. The question was, when? When would he have an opportunity? Thanksgiving? Christmas? He’d already waited so long. Who knew if Hamilton would still be running then?

Fortunately, Connor hosted some sort of soiree for some cause or another. Greg got the impression that his invitation was half-hearted, maybe even accidental, but he knew where and when the party was, so he went. 

He dressed nicely. He brushed up on current events, skimming through Reddit headlines and watching John Oliver so that he’d be able to keep up in conversation. 

Then, at the party, he hovered, practically mute, listening to Willa’s actor friends. He dropped hints about _Hamilton_ , hoping that one of the actors would magically produce a spare ticket. All he got were odd looks. Apparently, actors didn’t talk about shows they weren’t in.

He really only came to the party to talk to Connor. He kept an eye out all night, his stomach squirming. What if he never got the chance and he wasted an entire night listening to people talk about their craft? 

Finally, he spied Connor ducking into the coatroom, excused himself from whatever conversation he was nodding along to, and followed--less casual, more galloping.

“Hey, Connor. Great party.”

“‘Great party,’’ Connor repeated in a tone that may or may not have been mocking. He was going through the coats in his closet, trying to find something in one of the pockets. This warranted more attention than Greg. “Thanks. Thanks for coming.” 

“So, like, the theater stuff is really interesting. I haven’t seen that many shows, but, um...did you see _Hamilton?_ ”

“Yeah. I saw it at The Public five times.” His hand was jammed in a pocket, furiously digging something up.

Greg had assumed all shows were public--but of course the very wealthy could get private performances. It was something he should have known, so he blew past it. “Yeah? That’s so cool. Can you--I mean, I’d pay you back but--would it be possible if you, uh, for you to get me tickets? I have the money for it, I think, it’s just that it’s all sold out for like, two years.” 

“No one wants to see _Hamilton_ anymore,” Connor scoffed. “Overrated.”

“I, I do, though.” 

“Let me tell you something,” Connor said, the jackets forgotten. For the first time, he looked at Greg, with a creepy, manic intensity. Greg was getting Worst Case Scenario vibes all over, but he tried to maintain eye contact. “As an actor, Lin-Manuel Miranda makes Pia Zadora look like Sir Laurence Olivier, and as a composer, he makes Wildhorn look like Guettel, you get me?”

Greg moved his head diagonally. He assumed that was bad.

“You don’t want to see _Hamilton_ . If you want real art, go downtown, go to LaMama, OK? Go see _The Unexplained Howl._ People smearing paint over themselves and screaming for an hour. They’re not afraid of anything. _Aftershocks_ , it’s brilliant, people stomp their feet, absolute stone-faced, you get the emotion from their feet. _Parade_ at NYU. Their engineering students are putting it on.”

Normally, Greg was content to let the Roys inform his opinions, but he really, really wanted to see _Hamilton._ It was a desire that couldn’t be swept away by a few dismissive comments or a scary stare.

Frozen, Greg tried to think of a new tactic. Connor liked speeches. Greg could make a speech about, like, art. Or America. He couldn’t tell if Connor supported minority people or not. Best to avoid that entirely.

He was still trying to form some sort of argument when Connor sighed and said, “Alright, if you really want to jump off the bridge with all your lemming friends--”

“Yeah?” Greg’s eyes widened. He couldn’t believe it was that easy. He was going to see _Hamilton._

“--talk to Kendall. He knows that hip-hop stuff better than I do.”

A few days later, Greg asked Roman in passing, on a whim. Roman answered by furrowing his brow and asking what _Hamilton_ was, then who Greg was, then told him to ask Connor or Kendall.

That left the one person he should have asked in the first place.

“You don’t want to see _Hamilton_ ,” Tom said, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“No, but I do, I’m asking for tickets--”

“Mainstream horse hockey. Hoi polloi. That isn’t what theatre really is. You want true art? Stuff that actually challenges your brain and your preconceptions of the world?”

“Not really, no…”

“You don’t know what you want. Meet me at Sardi’s tonight. Pre-show drinks. I’ll show you what real theatre is.”

* * *

He really should have asked Tom first. Tom knew this stuff, and he wasn't snobby about it like Connor. Well, he was snobby in a different way. He was snobby in a way that still allowed him to hang out with Greg.

So what if they weren't seeing _Hamilton?_ Greg wasn’t so snobby and spoiled that he’d turn down tickets to a show, even if he didn’t know what it was. Tom insisted on keeping it a surprise _._ Maybe it was going to be the next _Hamilton_ , and Greg would get to tell people, “Oh, yeah, I saw that show ages ago. It’s outdated. No one wants to see it anymore.” If anyone knew what the next _Hamilton_ was going to be, it was Tom.

First, though, was dinner at a place called Sardi’s. Greg expected it to be stuffy and fancy with napkins tented on the plates and waiter outfits--and it was--but it was also covered in fun drawings of different celebrities. Every inch of the wall had a celebrity’s exaggerated portrait.

“Cool, right? Ann Reinking,” Tom said, pointing to a picture as he sat down. “ _Chicago_.”

Greg nodded, confused and eager. He skimmed the wall for a picture he could identify, quickly. “Stanley Tucci. I think he’s from Peekskill, uh, New York.”

Tom nodded and, unless Greg was mistaken, Tom seemed just as confused. Maybe he didn’t know who Stanley Tucci was or, worse, that picture _wasn’t_ Stanley Tucci, it was Jeffrey Tambor or someone. 

“He was in _The Devil Wears Prada_ and _The Hunger Games,”_ Greg clarified.

“Yeah, no, I know who Stanley Tucci is.” Tom’s trademark irritation flared in his voice, then faded. “If you keep your eyes peeled, you might see a celebrity in person.”

Tom always called that behavior--what was the word?--gauche. But it was like Tom was granting him permission, so Greg quickly glanced around as he put his napkin in his lap. “Oh, I think that’s Tom Hanks!”

“Don’t be a rube about it, Greg, God. It’s New York. Of course you’re going to see celebrities.”

“Right, yeah.”

“Tom Hanks,” Tom scoffed. “Is he even A-list?”

Tom ordered appetizers for the both of them, a special appetizer dish for two consisting of truffled chicken liver pate, grilled shrimp with olive tapenade, mozzarella with capers. Depending on what capers were, Greg might be able to stomach the mozzarella.

“I guess you go to a lot of theatre,” Greg said once the waiter had departed. 

Tom looked up, alarmed, hunted. “What makes you think that?”

Greg wasn’t sure what he’d said to get Tom’s guard up, so he answered honestly, if tentatively. “B-because you’re so cultured and, I don’t know, rich, and you’re in New York, so…”

It was the right response. Tom’s shoulders relaxed. “Yeah, cultured people see a lot of theater.”

Greg nodded in agreement with his own observation.

“You could see more,” Tom said. “Now that you’re making that RoyCo money.”

“Yeah, I guess. There aren’t many shows I want to see…’cept, you know, _Hamilton_ …”

Tom leaned across the table, his expression surprisingly open and disturbingly earnest. Greg glanced around quickly once more, looking to Tom Hanks for help, but Tom Hanks was facing away from them. “Theater isn’t about what you want to see. It’s about what you _need_ to see.” 

“Wow, that’s deep.” Greg knew it was deep because he wasn’t sure what it meant.

“You could see all that popular stuff, but what would you learn?” 

“Well, I learned a lot about American history from the cast recording, Like, um, did you know that Hamilton--he never actually got to be president.”

Tom laughed, his condescending laugh that was halfway between fond and mean. “You can learn facts from a book. You can only learn heart from the stage.”

“Wow, you really like theater…”

The waiter placed the appetizer plate between them, perfectly synchronized with Tom leaning back in his chair and adjusting his posture and napkin.

“I like it a normal amount,” Tom said. “Let’s eat.”

* * *

Greg got the impression that if Tom could, he would have kept the show a secret until they were seated and the curtains came up and the show began. But Tom couldn’t hide the billboard, blocks of green and black and white. Even Greg knew what it was. 

“We’re seeing _Wicked_?”

“You’ve heard of it?” Tom sounded impressed. 

“Uh, yeah, it’s like _The Wizard of Oz_ but different, right? I saw it in high school.”

Greg felt the night fall flaccid. His reflexive disappointment against Tom’s enthusiasm, the anticlimax that this was one of the few shows that Greg had _already seen._

“Then you didn’t understand it.”

Greg’s memory was foggy, but he was pretty sure he did. 

The night’s mood plummeted in the three endless seconds of silence that unfolded. Greg rushed to save it.

Maybe he _hadn’t_ understood it the first time around.

“Yeah, definitely, it was like, what is happening? I’m excited to see it again. Like, she’s been in _Frozen_ , you know, the woman in it? So that’ll be cool.”

“It’s a different Elphaba. They’ve switched Elphabas, like, five hundred times, Greg.”

“Um--oh, well, that’s even better, because it’s like, a new take on the character, and I’ll learn more stuff with, you know, my heart.”

Tom nodded sagely, seemingly appeased. “Each Elphaba brings something new to the role.”

“Wow, that’s...that’s incredible. All the different actresses, like, bringing something new.”

“Shall we go in?”  
  


* * *

The last time Greg saw _Wicked,_ he was in the middle of a growth spurt. He remembered walking up five thousand flights of stairs and then squeezing into a seat, scrunched and uncomfortable. He didn’t know where to put his legs, how to fold them--slanted sideways, one on top of the other, jutting out into the aisle, crossed under the chair. By the end of the night, he was surrounded by at least twelve angry seat-neighbors.

Whatever discomfort he’d felt then multiplied tenfold now that his growth spurt had settled at an ungainly 6’7. Somehow, Tom--not _that_ much shorter--seemed perfectly at ease.

Other than the whole size issue, the seats were good. They were on the ground floor, about five rows from the stage. Greg maneuvered his body so that he could look upward from an angle, see the farthest-backest back of the theater, maybe even recall where he’d sat. There were hundreds of seats above him, maybe even thousands. How had he even seen the stage? 

Greg noticed lots and lots of kids--younger than he’d been--and their parents. And teenage girls. As far as he could tell, he and Tom were the only two grown men in the audience together who weren’t kissing. He wondered what it meant.

“Hate to be one of the suckers up there, huh?” Tom murmured, just as Greg was about to point out where he thought he’d sat.

The lights dimmed. “Wow,” Greg whispered. An elderly woman in front of him, already jostled repeatedly by his unmanageable legs, turned around and shushed him.

* * *

Tom was right: Greg didn’t understand _Wicked_ when he saw it, plus he’d forgotten most of it by now, so it was like seeing it again for the first time. He vaguely recalled the loathing song, but he didn’t remember any of the weird animal stuff at all or Elphaba’s sister or the Munchkin guy, or, really, any character other than Elphaba and Glinda.

And it was worth seeing it again because this time, he got to see the actors’ faces so even if he couldn’t understand what was going on, plot-wise, at least he got to see what their eyes were doing.

The songs were super catchy. Not as catchy as _Hamilton_ but they were pretty good. His favorite was the song about being popular. He couldn’t help but think that the cramped seating detracted from the whole experience, though. If only there were a way he could watch it at home so he could spread out, or in one of the fancy movie theaters with the reclining seats. All in all, it was a good time, but he was relieved to get up and away from the people who kept glaring at him.

“Nothing like the magic of live theater, huh?” Tom asked.

“Yeah, it was so cool. I like that she got to fly. And Glinda’s really cute.” Greg noticed that most of the people in the audience remained in their seats. “Don’t they kick us out after the show?”

Tom laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

Greg shook his head slightly, wondering what the joke was.

“It’s intermission! There’s a whole second act.” 

“Oh...Cool! That’s a lot of bang for your buck.” Greg settled back in his seat, ignoring the people scowling at him as they returned to theirs. He didn’t know where they could go after the flying, though. Come to think of it, he might have slept through the second act last time he’d seen it.

* * *

Greg assumed that there was no third actor because all the actors game on stage and took bows. Most of the theater rose to their feet and kept clapping, including Tom, so Greg followed suit, grateful for the chance to stand up. Then Tom sat back down and sighed heavily.

“Good show,” Greg said, nodding approvingly and sitting back down.

“It’s a _great_ show,” Tom said, facing forward. His breathing was oddly hitched. Greg couldn’t tell if Tom was crying, or if the redness and puffiness in his face was bad lighting, or if he was having a bad reaction to the capers or--

“The emotions,” Tom choked, “that Glinda has to keep inside.”

Oh, he was definitely crying. Greg tried to remember if he’d seen Tom cry before. It was something he would have remembered seeing, right? And if he’d seen it before, then he wouldn’t feel so weirded out now.

“Um, yeah, it’s like, uh, she knows things? That she can’t tell? And she thinks Elphaba is dead? But she has to go on ruling the kingdom and, like, pretending? And she’s like, popular, but it doesn’t make her happy?” Greg went on and on, trying to empathize by way of plot summary. He looked around for help, but like Tom Hanks at Sardi’s, no one paid him any attention.

Eventually, Tom composed himself, and then went on like he hadn’t been crying at all. He didn’t even wipe his eyes, as if that would be confirming his tears. He either didn’t know he was crying, or he was pretending that he wasn’t and hoping that Greg would play along.

Greg was definitely going to play along.

Tom stood up and Greg followed, his left leg giving way from numbness. Tom narrowed his eyes.

“Jeez, Greg, did you forget how to stand?"

“Hah. Wish I could get around on a floating bubble like Galinda.”

“She's _Glinda_ at that point."

Greg didn’t want to talk about theater if he was going to get snippily corrected on minor details. It was probably safest to ask Tom for opinions.

“So, was that Elphaba, um, good? Like, did you think she was good?” 

“God, Greg, they don’t hire bad Elphabas. Maybe for the _tour_ but not for _Broadway._ ”

“Yeah, of course.”

“She was fine.”

They were at the street, Tom poised to hail a cab and Greg instinctively walking towards the subway, when Tom burst into tears again.

"They changed each other _for good,_ " he sobbed. Greg nodded eagerly. A lot of people were walking out of a lot of theaters, playbills in hand.

"Yeah, they didn't like each other at first and then they did? And then at the end they couldn't see each other anymore? It was really sad but also happy in a way?" Greg looked around, even though he knew from experience that he was on his own. He didn't know what else to say. What other plot points would comfort Tom? "And the goat, he died, I think."

Greg's words simply weren't getting through to Tom. It was like Tom couldn't hear him at all. Greg looked around one last time, still saw no help, and did the only thing he could think of. He put a hand on Tom's shoulder.

Tom straightened up so quickly that Greg pulled his hand away like metal spikes protruded from his shoulder. 

"What are you _doing?_ " Tom demanded.

"I was, uh, comforting you? Because you were crying?"

"I am _not_ crying," Tom said. It was true. He wasn't crying anymore. "Jeez, Greg. Pull yourself together."

Tom huffed, straightened his jacket, and walked into the next cab. 

"Hey," Tom called from the window, "I think you're ready for a more mature show next time. What about _Dear Evan Hansen?_ "

"Uh--sure! Sounds great!" Greg said as the cab pulled away.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never actually seen Wicked in its entirety but I know most of it and it just felt right, you know?
> 
> I seem to recall that, canonically, Tom is not a fan of theater, but...come on.
> 
> Yes, the Wildhorn and & Guettel line was original supposed to be Webber & Sondheim but I decided to go with a deeper cut.
> 
> I couldn't decide if the "more mature show" should be Book of Mormon or Dear Evan Hansen...I think I made the right choice.
> 
> Thank you for reading! I appreciate comments and stuff. Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
